#clextober2025

Clextober 2025

"I'm not sure we should go there," Lexa muttered. "Looks like the start of a bad horror movie." "But they probably have amazing candy," Maddie said confidently, adjusting the strap on her costume. "Come on, you're a witch, you should feel right at home among your own." "If anyone crawls out from under that porch, I'll haunt you as a ghost for a week," Lexa warned. "Ghosts aren't real," Maddie smirked and stepped towards the gate. Lexa sighed heavily, adjusted her cloak, and followed. The air changed – it became quieter, thicker, as if the sound of their footsteps was softer. A scent of smoke and spices drifted from behind the house: cinnamon, lavender, and something else, warm and elusive. The wind caught the hem of her cloak, making it flare like a wing. A sign hung on the gate: "Enter if you dare." "Very hospitable," Lexa read aloud. Maddie snorted, already reaching for the handle. "Let's go. The Witch House is waiting." Lexa took a step after her, and the light from the fairy lights behind them seemed to dim for a moment.

Hope you enjoy this little tale :)

The Wolf's Path

She felt the other's presence with her skin. Nearby, beyond the line of the unseen, where the circle ended and the forest began, something opened. Branches crunched. The smell of iron—cold, profound—touched her tongue. A wolf stepped out of the darkness. He walked slowly, each paw sinking into the soft, wet moss. His fur was silver, hazy, as if dusted with ash. On his flanks was caked blood, dark, viscous; it gleamed like sap on bark. On his forehead was a black mark, shimmering in the moonlight: a sign not born of nature, but forged by the hands of hunters. Clarke knew this symbol, had seen it in old drafts of Order brands, in sketches hidden in books on her shelf; had seen it in her dreams, like a flash. The wolf looked directly at Clarke, and in his gaze was what she feared: human pain, stark, unbearable. Clarke tilted her head back slightly to catch her breath; something clicked softly in her chest. His steps were halted by a barrier. Invisible, it gave a soft push, not letting him inside the circle, and the wolf… did not press. He lowered his head slightly, as if asking. Clarke knew what she had no right to do, and there are rules that make the forest a forest, and the night a night. "A poor design, to ask this of me," she whispered. "And yet." She passed her palm through the air, along the very boundary, and undid the loop. The barrier vibrated like a string—thinly, anxiously—but under her fingers, it softly unraveled. The smell of wet fur and fresh blood rushed inward; the wolf stepped across the boundary, without breaking it, and entered the circle with careful steps. The salt did not flare up. The fires did not waver. Only the air grew thick, as if warm mist was rising over icy water.